The Beast
by pigeons
Summary: "How are you today? You don't look so good." The voice was so perfect, so crisp and it cut through all of Matthew's defenses like a knife. Like a razorblade in thigh-skin. Matthew swore he could feel his heart stop, and he didn't know if it was the beast in his head or if it was love. PruCan - Explicit Self Harm.
1. Chapter 1

I feel kinda bad for abandoning Gold Stick Heels. But that story was stressing me out, and none of it ended up the way i wanted it to. So you can just pretend it had a happy ending, okay? I had one in store.

Anyways. God bless Nina who made me pseudo-ship PruCan. This n's for you. (I'm prolly gonna make this one like... 5 chapters. 3 chapters. Something. I don't know. Best not get carried away.)

**EXPLICIT SELF HARM**. LIKE, REALLY TRIGGERING SHIT. Turn back if that ain't your cup o' tea. Don't flame me either.

* * *

Matthew never understood it, but every time he looked at that kid's face, he wanted to throw up. It was never a good feeling, nothing like the 'butterflies in your stomach' kind of thing. It was like something was clawing its way up his throat, fucking with his head and shaking his gaze. It was a beast inside of him, pounding behind his eye sockets. Most of the time, he was fine. But every time he looked at the square jaw, pale skin—he only felt sickness.

Most of the time, he spent his days asleep. Everything was better when he was asleep—he could sleep through his problems, could fend off anxieties and the urges that plagued him. He could fend off the beast in himself. So when school ended each day, and he stepped off the bus at the corner, he walked inside and slept.

Because anything was better than the feeling of looking at something he could never have.

He'd barely ever even talked to the kid—for all intents and purposes, he was invisible. He didn't exist. For all the physical matter he was, he created far too few ripples in the pond. Even now, it was getting harder and harder to talk, because people were less and less inclined to listen.

The beast had gripped his throat, and he let it. Talking was ineffective for him, anyways. His voice was always too soft. _He_ was always too soft. He hid behind a pair of glasses and a book and a hoodie every day, blocked out conversation with headphones—but he _watched_. As painful as it was, he watched the tall pale kid in each class. During all the hours he spent awake, he thought about the sharp curve of his jaw, the freckles lightly dusted over his cheeks and nose, the deep rasp in his voice when he laughed along with his friends.

Because, you know, people have friends, at least the _normal_ people. All Matthew had was the beast, and it effectively tore him apart.

Another night spent detached. Another night spent on the toilet lid, leaned against the wall with his feet on the counter. Bare legs. A blade in his hand. For each time he looked at something he can't have, another cut. Lately there were more.

He could never bring himself to be reckless about it. It was never passionate, like you hear about in movies and books and the soap-opera style bullshit they play at three-thirty AM on Monday nights. It wasn't methodical, either, though. There wasn't really any exactness to it. There were short, straight lines across both legs—most below his left hip, perhaps because he was left handed. They ran like train-tracks all the way to his knees. Most were old, some were faded, but you could still feel them. The small ones were just whitish ghosts of lines, but others were deep grooves and mountains in his flesh. Some were slightly red, some inflamed, some scabbed and some bandaged. Differing stages of healing all throughout.

The corner of the razor dipped in again and he felt his skin start to tear. There was always that inconsistent jerkiness of the blade and it made his skin crawl. Most of the time it was rather quick—just one flick of his hand and it pulled through, suddenly the shining skin that was never supposed to be seen was exposed to the air. There was that shock—no blood, just pain and shame and the beast laughing in his stomach, then red droplets formed from the wound. And they formed. And formed, and kept coming.

A few drops dripped down his leg and hit the floor, and Matthew felt himself laughing.

* * *

It was getting harder to walk. He thought maybe he should buy some sweatpants or something, because blue jeans were irritating his wounds. He clutched his books to his chest and braved the stairs.

Chemistry was the next class he was going to. He knew the boy would be there, and he knew the beast would scratch his throat and pick his scabs, or maybe that was him. In any sense, he could never keep his eyes off the olive skin. It was unblemished, and he found himself feeling the ladders of scars through his jeans. Irreversible. He'd never be attractive to such a person—and each time he looked at that boy, he hurt himself again to prove it.

The chemistry teacher introduced herself—she didn't really need to, this was only the start of second semester. Matthew had her last semester anyways, so there were only a few students requiring the introduction. The boy was one of them.

Like any cliché romantic story, it started as lab partners. Matthew was upset.

Anyone in the entire class, and the teacher had put him with the most harmful person. This person who'd built him up and torn him down, and he'd never even spoken a word to. He couldn't look at him, but he couldn't keep from looking at him. And now he was required to look at him.

The class stood from the temporary seating arrangements, and he found his feet rooted to the floor. He forced them, achingly, begrudgingly, to carry him to table eleven, in the back. His scars started to burn, and the beast's sharp claws reached their way into his mind.

And the boy stood, and he moved. With such carelessly uninterested movements, he sealed Matthew's heart, and sealed his lips. He reached out his hand.

"I'm Gilbert."

The extension of his hand caught Matthew off guard, and he flinched backwards. His eyes were trained on it, like it was a foreign object. An alien thing, a handshake. He couldn't bring himself to shake it. Not even close. But with those two words Gilbert had awakened a pain in Matthew's heart. Don't ever love someone, don't ever fall in love, don't ever love someone, you can never have them, they'll never love you back—

Matthew's eyes trailed progressively up Gilbert's arm, to his shoulder, to his jawbone, to his lips, finally meeting his bewildered gaze. _Eye contact._ Matthew was stuck there, scared out of his wits by the sudden interactions, the interest sparking in the pinkish-red eyes, interest for _him_. He was stuck, gripped by a pounding heart, gripped by the beast.

He didn't say anything, just uneasily stared back at Gilbert.

Noticing the tension resonating from Matthew's stance, he slowly dropped the offending hand and turned to the lab table, breaking the panicked eye contact. "You don't talk much." Matthew found himself still unable to respond. "It's okay. It's just chemistry. This stuff's easy."

_Chemistry, easy? What ever gave you that idea?_

Later, for the second day in a row, Matthew brought out his blade. Normally it was two or three days a week, but today he needed comfort from it. A strange thing to find comfort in, but at least the blade didn't meet his eyes, force him to yield all thoughts like those red ones that burned him almost as much as the claws of the beast.

He cut deep that night, as well. The first one tore almost a quarter inch wide, quickly over, and he was on to the next. Streams of red were running down his legs before he finally decided it was time to press some tissue to it and get to bed.

Tonight he decided band-aids weren't enough, so he wrapped some ace bandages around his leg too. Couldn't hurt. The pressure on it felt comforting. He limped to bed, and fell asleep.

The next day he dreaded chemistry. It was a deadly toxin that made him weaker, made the beast stronger. He swore he could hear it laughing. He wondered if he needed help.

As soon as he entered the classroom, he marched a painful march to table eleven, and waited for the bell to ring. Gilbert came in as well—only a minute later. The classroom was still mostly empty. Perhaps a quarter of the students were present. The rest were bustling around in the halls.

Matthew looked down at the table when the tall boy sat down next to him. He trembled a little bit. He wasn't supposed to look at him at all. He wasn't supposed to be here. He shouldn't be here—he should ask for a class change, he should talk to the teacher about moving his seat, changing his partner. But that would require talking in general, and attention would be on him—even just one person was too much. Too much attention, he needed to be alone—

"How are you today? You don't look so good." The voice was so perfect, so crisp and it cut through all of Matthew's defenses like a knife. Like a razorblade in thigh-skin.

Matthew still didn't respond. Should he break his resolve? Maybe… just a few words to him—it couldn't hurt. Or perhaps it would, later, with his legs propped on the counter.

He still couldn't bring himself to open his mouth, for the beast was too close to the top of his throat. If he talked, it would jump out—it would kill him, for all intents and purposes, and he would have nothing left if the beast jumped out. So instead, he brought out a notebook.

_I'm sorry._

He wrote the words in his slightly lopsided, small, square handwriting. Gilbert tried to look at Matthew's face, but it was hidden by his hair as he looked down.

He didn't look sure of how to react. He probably wasn't—that was nothing he expected, but it was better than Matthew embarrassing himself using his whispery, unlikable voice. Gilbert stammered.

"Y-y-you're apologizing? For not lookin' so hot? Maybe we should get you some water, little bird." Gilbert leaned closer to him, trying to peer under the blonde waves shielding Matthew from him. Matthew shook his head a little hurriedly, and took his black pen back to the notepad.

_I'm fine. You don't have to._

The 'I'm' smudged a little bit under his hand as he wrote. He cursed being left handed.

"Don't be like that. Here, I'll run to the drinking fountain. I've got a water bottle…" He was up before Matthew could stop him or write something else, snatching the bottle from his side of the desk and slipping quickly out into the hall. Class would start in only a few more minutes, and kids were starting to file in and take their seats.

Matthew looked up to find himself staring after Gilbert, wondering what it took for someone to notice him suffering.

* * *

Every time he looked at Gilbert, it made him want to tear himself open even more. Sometimes he did, sometimes he just ran the edge of the blade across his skin to feel it sting and bite without bleeding fucking everywhere and cleaning it all up. Either way, he cut each day. It was more often, more important than other things. He found himself making time for it in his day, and he felt disgusting.

Matthew now found himself conflicted, because he'd promised himself he'd never want someone like he wanted Gilbert, and yet he became more and more prolific on the notepads, carrying out conversation with the white-haired boy.

Each class, he'd grow bolder. Not by much, but he'd have another thing he would be willing to share with Gilbert—another inch closer he was willing to shift. He still hadn't made eye contact, though, and told himself he might not for a while. It seemed realistic enough.

He was picking at a stray thread on his old red hoodie when he heard Gilbert say the thing that would cause the beast to overbear him—"Hey, do you wanna hang out some time? You're way too shy, birdie, but you're actually kind of… pleasant. Let's be honest. Not a lot of people in this school really are."

Matthew had to stand up and exit the room, leaving an expectant Gil behind him.

He walked from the classroom to the restroom out in the hall, locking the door to one of the stalls and slumping against the wall. This was everything you've ever wanted, right? Why don't you just fucking grow some balls and say yes? The beast said that. He concluded he really might need mental help.

He could never really have Gilbert, though. He was just some fucking weird kid who was his lab partner. That's all. He spent a few more minutes getting the beast under control, finally forcing himself to stand and return (albeit slowly) to the classroom.

Gilbert stared at him expectantly as he walked back in, like he still wanted an answer. God, he was so patient and so kind and so perfect and—

_I'm sorry. We can if you want. I'm just not… used to people asking that. I'm sorry._

He only realized he repeated himself after he'd finished, so he looked down again and hoped Gil didn't care.

Gilbert only gave him a curious look, before smiling a smile that Matthew _knew_ was a warm smile, and replying, "Damn, birdie. You sure do get a guy's heart pounding. So we're on!"

Matthew swore he could feel his heart stop, and he didn't know if it was the beast or if it was love.


	2. Chapter 2

So I haven't proof read this at all so its bound to be fuckin terrible but whatever. I shouldn't be awake anyways. It's 4 AM and I have to be up at 8 for driver's training. Whatever man.

Also, Nina, DID I EVER SAY I WAS FINISHED WITH THIS? HAHA NO I DIDNT

enjoy y'all motherfuckers, please review

* * *

Later, after they'd had some silent meetings, Gil started getting a little wieldier around Matthew. He knew not to touch, he knew not to shout. He knew never to grab his wrists or his shoulders, and to move cautiously around him.

Matthew had a little trouble trusting the world. He wasn't hit at home; he wasn't abused. It was only his invisibility that had unfamiliarized him with human touch. He'd never been introduced to a friendly slap on the shoulder—he'd never before had to deal with an excited friend grabbing his wrists. See, when people want your attention, they tend to go for your hands. Hands are points of interest on a person, and if you have their hands, you have their interest; the exception being people like Matthew.

The first few times they hung out were in public. Once in a coffee shop, where Gil had ordered a coffee so strong he almost spat it to the floor. That was the first time he'd coaxed a laugh out of Mattie. He made it his mission to do it again. The second time they hung out was in a movie theater. Gil had planned it a few days in advance (strangely) and accidentally got the time wrong. They had an hour to sit in front of the theater before they went in, and Gil spent it trying to get Mattie to talk.

It wasn't that he couldn't talk. It was the beast, he promised. (Or, didn't promise. Didn't speak,) It still had his voice, and he didn't know what was worth saying anyways. If he could find it, he would probably just croak out something self-pitiful and then he'd die of it. Gil didn't need to hear his problems.

He found it strange that he was even willing to go out after so long in isolation. Maybe it was a gross fascination with the fact someone had noticed him, taken him as an individual rather than someone in the crowd of extras, like a film. Maybe it was too much like a film, he thought. Maybe it's Matthew Williams starring in, "The Perks of Being a Wallflower Gone Wrong". Or at least with a different ending. (a worse one.)

He still couldn't meet Gilbert's eyes yet. He now knew their color like he knew the beast—if there was anything he could possibly be prolific about, it would be Gilbert. How beautiful Gilbert was. He wondered if it made him shallow.

The third time they met outside of school, it was at Gil's house. Matthew had been more nervous than ever and found himself worrying about Gil's parents, what he says, what he does, what he looks like—oh god, what a day to wear his rattiest red sweatshirt (though, it was his favorite)—but Gilbert just assured him everything would be okay. Gilbert seemed really good at reading his expressions when no one else was, after all.

Gil had taken him on the bus with him—an uncomfortable experience, by all means. Matthew hated buses, so he quickly stepped into the window seat and patted the seat to have Gilbert sit next to him. It was certainly better than sitting next to a stranger, and Gil knew not to touch him—keep a comfortable distance away, stay relaxed, don't talk too loudly. Matthew conversing skills 101. Once he'd gotten on the bus and sat alone, and two other kids had crammed onto the seat with him. It was like they didn't see him at all. He'd almost had a panic attack, and ended up getting off the bus early in order to get away. He walked an extra 8 blocks that day.

Gil smiled as he told Matthew they'd arrived at his stop. Matthew watched as Gilbert flipped off the bus driver and hissed,_ "Later, hag!"_ and wondered if she thought any less of him now. He supposed so. None of the teachers and staff seemed to like Gilbert, anyways.

He felt a little bit of the black-bile stuff in his stomach, reminding him the beast was probably going to tear him apart.

They stepped into Gil's house, a seemingly nice one in an upscale neighborhood. Matthew really wondered if he expected Gilbert to live in an apartment or something, but then it made a little sense since families usually have _one_ bad seed in them.

_"LUDWIG, I'M HOME!"_ Gilbert shouted as they shut the door. Matthew jumped, startled.

"Who's with you, Gil? It better not be Francis, you slacker—" It was then that Ludwig came around the corner. He ran a hand through his blonde hair and looked Matthew over with cold eyes. Matthew noted how different the shade of his eyes and his brothers were. "Who's this?"

"This is Mattie, a friend of mine. Where's Feli?"

"He drove me home in his brother's car. I just got home a few minutes ago. The bus takes longer."

"No kidding, with the way that kid drives, you'll beat me to hell and back. Not in a good sense, either." Ludwig rolled his eyes at Gilbert's criticism. "Whatever. Come on, Mattie. Let's go to my room. We'll play X-box."

Ludwig receded into the kitchen, and Gilbert took Matthew (who was hesitant to tread this new ground) up the stairs.

Matthew was completely on edge. This was someone's home, _Gilbert's _home, and he was… not quite _intruding_ there, but something of the sort. He could feel himself tense.

Gilbert opened the door to a pigsty of a room—clothes littered the floor, posters of half-naked chicks and guns and anime on the walls. There was a bed (unmade) with grey blankets, and an old looking TV hooked up to an X-box. Gilbert swept some clothes aside to make room for them to sit on the floor in front of it. Matthew treaded lightly.

The next half an hour would consist of the two of them playing first-person shooter games, which Matthew was okay at. They spent some time playing Halo, some time on COD, some time on other pretty stereotypical things. Matthew was a little disappointed in himself though, even if he never played video games in his spare time. He didn't have the same aggressive vigor that Gilbert had, and eventually they kind of gave up on X-box.

Gilbert would try other things. He'd ask Matthew a million questions he'd never get answers to. Matthew just listened to him talk, the timbers of his voice, and he was almost jealous that Gilbert didn't have a beast to make him silent. Matthew offered a tilt of his head, a nod or a shake, to answer some, and others offered a blank stare at Gilbert's collarbones.

"Do you like girls? Like, dating and stuff?" Gilbert questioned.

Matthew gave a shrug and a tug of his lip to the side, an expression of hesitant reluctance and indifference.

"Do you like guys?"

Matthew was struck, and he stared silently at Gil's collarbones again.

"Haha, I-I guess that was a weird question. It's okay…" Gilbert laughed it off, as he seemed to be skilled at doing. "Have you ever dated at all?"

This time Matthew shook his head.

"Huh. What do you spend your time doing, then?"

Cutting.

A blank stare.

Gil seemed to notice the change in tone. "W-what, is it embarrassing? Do you keep a Barbie password journal? Play dress up games? Watch bungee jumping videos on youtube?"

Please, Gil.

"Well, _come on!_ Just speak up, Mattie! What do you do every day?"

Still, Matthew was silent.

"Come on, the _hell's_ wrong with your voice, man? I know it's okay. You've told me before. The hell's wrong with _you?_"

He was pushing it too hard. Matthew felt his chest tighten, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. Suddenly the room was threatening, suddenly Gilbert was threatening and the white walls were confining. His lungs were pained, his shoulders starting to hunch.

"W-woah, are you okay!? Don't freak out, I didn't mean anything!"

If Matthew could find the bearings to concentrate, all his thoughts would say _I do not feel safe, I do not feel safe, I want to leave, You're pushing too hard, I don't feel safe_

_But it's just Gilbert. Can't you trust Gilbert?_

Gilbert's hands found his shoulders , but Matthew smacked them away. Gilbert fell back as if burned, scooting against the far wall and watching in complete futility as Matthew struggled to unlock his locking muscles, to remind himself _Gil isn't going to hurt you._

It was mistaken aggression, honestly. It wasn't real. Any normal person would have taken it, would have shot back a snarky retort. Matthew cursed not the beast this time, he cursed himself.

It's just Gilbert.

It was a few minutes, but Matthew got his breathing steady again. His hair was mussed now, His hands threading through it in an effort to calm himself. He took himself through the motions of relaxing his shoulders, relaxing his biceps, relaxing his spine, his thighs, his hands, his neck and eyes— He was focused on the ground between his feet, and his knees were pulled up to his chest. He let himself go steadily more limp, until he'd rolled forward on his knees, spine bent slightly.

It's just Gilbert. It's okay.

He found himself looking up to meet Gilbert's eyes. There he found confusion, fear. He found an apology in those eyes.

He let out a deep shuddery breath, walking on his knees over to the other.

Matthew wrapped his skinny arms around Gil's neck, falling into the first comfortable embrace he'd had in a long time. Gilbert's arms were around his back in no time, and they felt so much stronger and more substantial than his own. He tucked his chin over Gilbert's shoulder.

The beast screamed in pain, recoiling enough for Matthew's throat to open up.

"I'm sorry." His voice was the raspiest quietest whisper, but Gil heard it.

"No, I'm sorry. I messed up." He tightened their hug, pressing Matthew's still-shaking body to his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

yo yo yo yo yo im back w/ chapter 3 its a lot better than chapter 2 but its shorter and hopefully chapters 4/5 will be better and make you sadder ok

dont do what matthew is doing ok kids its bad and it hurts a lot thank u

* * *

The next few weeks were more laid back. Matthew got better.

That had only been his second ever panic attack. They were always incredibly terrifying, whether they were rational or not. He counted that one as a completely irrational one; it was only his mind telling him lies. He wondered again if he needed some help.

The cutting still hadn't stopped. As soon as he got home from Gil's house, most days, he'd hate himself for monopolizing Gilbert's time. He'd hate himself for being so quiet, for making Gil do all the work and talking. He'd get out the razor and sit in the usual position, one line for each thought he had of kissing Gilbert, one for each thought of being pressed into the bed, fingers kneading the back of his neck and running through his hair.

It was more and more obvious that the first person he let in was going to be the one he fell in love with.

Gilbert was learning more about him, now; more about his life and more about his boundaries, respectively. Matthew still hadn't spoken after he'd apologized for his attack. Gilbert was trying to be patient, but it was never his strong suit.

"Come on, birdie, I know you've got vocal cords. I'm not gonna push it anymore, I promise, but please try?"

Matthew nodded vacantly.

Gilbert learned eventually what touches were welcome, as well. He could offer his hand for Matthew to hold; he could wrap an arm around him while they rode the bus. He could pull Matthew to his side with an arm around his waist if they entered a crowd—keeping Matthew closer to him was better than him bumping into several strangers. Sometimes Matthew would let Gilbert play with his hair. The availability of these touches had never been offered to anyone before; Matthew supposed it was a sort of a first friend's perk. Gilbert was patient with him, so in exchange he offered some degree of trust.

They kept going to Gilbert's house to hang out. Matthew brought a notebook and they sat on Gil's bed doodling and writing and other dorky things. Once they made paper airplanes and saw who could get the farthest throw. Matthew won by only a few inches, much to Gilberts' enthusiastic dismay. Almost every day was spent like this; Matthew was finally happy to have a friend.

The sickness Matthew felt was decreasing each day. The sickness he used to get when he looked at Gilbert was gone; something else bubbled in his chest and he wondered if it was the beast trying to kill him for real.

Sometimes Gilbert would get a glaze over his eyes, and he'd lean towards Matthew a little bit. It was with much caution that he waved his hand in front of the red orbs. He thought for a minute that Gilbert was going to kiss him. It was a foolishly hopeful thought, dredging through all the darkness in the attic of his mind.

It was a Thursday when Gilbert noticed something. They'd eaten lunch together, and were headed up the stairs to their math classes (in neighboring rooms), and Gilbert saw Matthew's slight wince, his small limp as he braved the steps.

"Mattie? What's wrong with ya'?"

Matthew was confused for a moment, evident on his expression.

"You were limping just now. Did you trip, or sprain your ankle or something?"

Matthew realized now, and shook his head just a little too vigorously. He pulled Gilbert's head down so he could speak quietly into his ear.

"Don't worry about it." It was as quiet as the first time he'd spoken.

Gilbert's look shifted to one of mild surprise and he chastised Matthew, "Of course I'm gonna worry about you. You're hurt. Come on, let's go into the bathroom, show me. Did you bruise your leg?" He grabbed Matthew's wrist and he could feel him pulling back weakly.

Matthew was shaking his head. No, no, no. No. No no. He couldn't let Gilbert see.

Gilbert dragged him in the bathroom anyways. He could only find himself resisting weakly, trying not to make a scene.

"Come on, you're not gonna get to class until you show me. Please, Mattie. What happened? Did someone hurt you?" He spoke quietly in the echo-y bathroom, but he was clearly upset.

"I can't." Matthew whispered. "I can't, I can't."

"You will."

Matthew was crying now. It was obvious that Gilbert was upset about that, but he found it more necessary to find out why Matthew was hurt.

The late bell rang.

It took a few minutes before Matthew unbuttoned his jeans, still in tears, and exposed his thigh.

It was slashed to ribbons, blood seeping through whatever bandages were left.

Gilbert didn't say anything. He didn't make a sound. He just covered his mouth with a hand, tears leaking from his eyes. Matthew quickly hid his cuts again in shame and fear and disgrace, closing his eyes and curling his shoulders in on himself, arms crossed.

"H-how long have you…?"

"A long time."

Gilbert pulled Matthew in to his chest this time. He couldn't think of any words to say.

* * *

After school that day was the first time Gil talked to him since the confrontation. Matthew was very much on edge. He'd gone to go and get on the bus to his own house, but just before he boarded, Gilbert grabbed him by his sleeve and pulled him onto their normal bus. He threw Matthew into a seat and didn't say a word the entire ride.

When they arrived at Gilbert's house, Matthew was even more afraid. What was Gilbert going to do?

Gil dragged him all the way to his room, past a bewildered Ludwig, shutting the door behind him. He stood, facing the door, and Matthew held his wrist where Gil had gripped it and shook.

"Matthew." He suddenly said, still facing the door. Matthew didn't say anything.

"Matthew, you've got to stop." Gilbert spun now, and Matthew saw the angry tears. "You've got to stop hurting yourself. Do it for me."

Matthew was almost… angry.

_For you? For YOU? This has nothing to do with you. It's me. It's the beast I have to bleed out. You'd never understand. I'd never stop it FOR YOU because I don't do it FOR YOU._

"This isn't your fault." Matthew rasped, almost silently.

"I know it's not my fault! It's not my fault… but it can't be yours either. I can't let you hurt like this."

_You're so dense. You think you can change me? You think you'll come into my life and magically everything will be better? I'm still invisible. I'm still insignificant and lonely and you haven't changed me._

"You can't change this."

"Mattie, I have to! I… I need to tell someone about this. I need to get you help, it's gonna be okay… you didn't need to go this far, birdie…"

_Now you're out to ruin what we had, aren't you. You think I'm a freak. You can't help me because I can't be helped._

"Please stop. Please. Don't tell anyone. Please." His voice cracked.

_You're out to ruin what we had. You're out to ruin what we had. I'll never trust you again._

Gilbert looked at Matthew's terrified face for one moment, and he knew his resolve wouldn't let him tell. He couldn't do it. Matthew didn't want help, and Gilbert didn't know how to deal with that.

"I'm. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything. I want to fix it."

"You can't."


End file.
